Barnabas Tew and The Case Of The Missing Scarab Page 8

  “And,” continued Barnabas, “his evidence was most compelling.” He shuddered at the idea of having one’s toes removed by an angry god of chaos. “And I am now doubly grateful for our disguises. At least we won’t have that sort of thing to worry about now.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Wilfred.

  “Although,” mused Barnabas, “I did forget to ask Anti about the maid.” Wilfred sighed as Barnabas looked towards the retreating boatman, waving in a vain attempt to call Anti back, presumably to ask him about the poor maligned (and, Wilfred presumed, altogether imaginary) maid. “Ah well,” Barnabas concluded sadly. “I suppose he’s too far away to ask now. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to go up to that castle and see what we can find out.”

  Together they climbed up the steep stone steps that led to Set’s abode, Barnabas leading the way and Wilfred following along behind. The structure was immense, a giant, gleaming black castle set high upon a precipice that overlooked the river. Tall turrets and spires pointed sharply towards the sky, which was tinged a dull, ugly red and punctuated with black clouds that sparkled with angry red lightning. The massive edifice of the castle spoke of power, and might, and secrecy, as the walls were thick and seemingly entirely impenetrable. The whole effect was one of foreboding and of evil, and Barnabas and Wilfred’s hearts were filled with trepidation.

  Their nervousness was such that their steps slowed more and more the closer they got to the castle, until at last Wilfred reached out a hand to stay his employer.

  “Wait a moment,” he said. “How are we to get in?”

  “Well,” said Barnabas, considering. He turned to look up the last few steps. From the top of the stone staircase it was a matter of a short walk down a path of dark brick around the side of the castle to the front. There, they could easily see a wider causeway that presumably led to the castle gates. Barnabas pointed at that pathway, saying, “There’s the front door. I’m supposing that we ought to go through it.”

  “But,” said Wilfred, who was holding on to Barnabas’ sleeve and refusing to let go, even as Barnabas turned to continue walking towards the main entrance, “I really think we should think this through a bit more.” In truth, he was very frightened, and, now that it had come to it, had no wish to simply walk right up to the castle and demand admittance.

  “We must talk to Set,” pointed out Barnabas. “And we came all this way to do so, and now here we are. We really have no other choice but to go in.”

  “But it might be quite dangerous in there,” said Wilfred, eyeing the castle. “It doesn’t seem entirely friendly, when you look at it.”

  Barnabas looked up to the terrible castle and felt his stomach churn with anxiety. Still, they had a job to do, a job of the utmost importance. It simply would not do for them to go back to Anubis and announce that they hadn’t interviewed the prime suspect because they were spooked by his castle, however daunting that castle might be.

  Also, it seemed that Wilfred’s fear made Barnabas feel a bit more brave, and he was very proud to be taking on the role of the courageous detective who could approach any place, interrogate any suspect, and still make it home by tea time. Indeed, he thought, even Sherlock Holmes could scarcely show more bravery than this.

  Thinking thus, he puffed up his chest and held his head high, assuming what he hoped was an imperialistic air of authority. “In we must go,” he proclaimed, “and so go in we will!” With that, he turned and began to climb the last few steps (in a way he thought projected supreme confidence, but that really ended up looking a bit like a little boy pretending to march like a soldier). However, any effect he may have hoped for was quite ruined, as he was immediately yanked back by Wilfred’s hand, which still clutched his sleeve unrelentingly.

  “Really! I say!” exclaimed Barnabas, a bit annoyed at Wilfred’s behavior. He pulled at his arm, attempting to free himself. Wilfred, however, pulled back to restrain him so that they ended up having a bit of a tug-of-war over Barnabas’ sleeve for quite a few moments. At last Barnabas gave up. “What are you about, Wilfred? What has gotten into you?” he demanded.

  “Quite sorry, really, I am,” said Wilfred, embarrassed. “But it’s just that we went to all the trouble to make these disguises, and it seems that all of that was for naught if we simply waltz up to the front door and announce ourselves.”

  “Oh,” said Barnabas. He could see the sense of Wilfred’s argument, and it gave him pause. “Quite right, I suppose,” he admitted grudgingly. “So, then, how do you suggest we get into the castle?”

  “Hmmm,” said Wilfred, considering. “We could creep up to the doors, quiet as mice, so that no one sees us. Perhaps once we have a look we could devise a way to sneak in without attracting the attention of the guards. Then we can move about the castle and spy on Set, with him never the wiser to our presence.”

  Barnabas, whose ego had been much bolstered by the idea of himself as a heroic confident detective, was a bit deflated by the idea of creeping about Set’s castle like a mouse. Still, he had to admit that the idea was a good one, and a good deal less likely to get them killed. Again, as it were.

  He wondered if they even could be killed, since they were already dead. Then he wondered, if indeed they couldn’t be killed yet again, and if that fact in itself might open up other possibilities, an outcome altogether worse than merely being killed. If that were the case, then surely Set, the god of chaos and evil, would have any number of horrible things at the ready for anyone who offended him. Barnabas shuddered, and then, at last, nodded his agreement to Wilfred.

  “Alright,” he said. “We shall sneak in.” Once more he turned to continue up the stairs. “My arm, please,” he said, pursing his lips.

  “Oh yes, quite,” said Wilfred, flustered. He let go of his employer’s sleeve. “Terribly sorry,” he muttered.

  With Wilfred’s hands safely tucked into his pockets and Barnabas’ arm safely returned to his own possession, they continued up the stairs. Moving more stealthily now, they reached the top and quickly ducked behind a large boulder.

  They could easily see the gates of the castle, huge wooden doors reinforced by massive crisscrossed bars of black metal and flanked by guards with large hippo heads. The guards interviewed every person who passed by (of which there were many; the place was far busier than Barnabas would have guessed).

  Barnabas could see that, although most of the people coming in pushed carts full of goods before them (probably for trade in the castle, he supposed), many were quite ragged and their carts not quite full. Still, the guards carefully inspected each cart that arrived and gruffly asked questions of the owners. Sad little apples and wilted sheaves of grain jostled about in the bottoms of near-empty carts as their owners formed a dejected-looking queue, awaiting their turn to be subjected to the hippo-headed guards’ brisk scrutiny.

  “Hippos,” huffed Barnabas, rolling his eyes as if hippos were a problem that they faced with regularity.

  “Ugh,” agreed Wilfred, shaking his head as if in wonderment at the audacity of the hippos to be seemingly forever in their way.

  “How ever will we sneak through?” asked Barnabas, frowning.

  “Perhaps we could hide at the bottom of one of those carts?” suggested Wilfred. “Cover ourselves with apples and what not?”

  Barnabas thought about the idea for a moment. “That could work,” he began, then winced as one of the guards plunged a spear into a bag of rice, causing the contents to spill out at the feet of the protesting man to whom it belonged. “Or perhaps we’d best not,” said Barnabas.

  “Most definitely not,” agreed Wilfred.

  They continued to watch, hoping that some way of getting into the castle unnoticed would come to their attention.

  “I know!” said Wilfred at last. “We could buy a cart from one of the peasants and then act as though we ourselves are delivering goods to the castle.”

  “And with our disguises, they will never suspect that we are detectives from England,” said Barnabas.
“They will think we are some sort of animals from the desert, or some such.”

  Wilfred looked doubtfully at his employer, taking in the assortment of reeds and grasses that still stuck out from Barnabas’ upper half like bristles on a brush. “Or perhaps they will think we are some sort of plant-people,” he suggested.

  “Quite so.” Barnabas sighed. “I suppose we must look a bit more, well, vegetative than mammalian.

  “How shall we pay for the cart?” asked Wilfred. “Do you suppose they’d take British pounds sterling here?”

  “Huh,” said Barnabas, considering. “I don’t see why not. It’s good currency and recognized everywhere else in the world. I can’t see why it wouldn’t be the same here.”

  “What shall we do in case they don’t?”

  Barnabas thought for a moment. “Well,” he said at last matter-of-factly, “I suppose there will be nothing for it but for us to knock the owner quite unconscious and take the cart by force, if it comes to that.”

  “Mr. Tew!” gasped Wilfred, shocked into formality. “You can’t mean that!”

  “We’ll only just bonk them over the head and make them a little bit unconscious,” said Barnabas defensively. “They’ll wake up soon enough. Really, the fate of the world is in our hands. With great responsibility comes great, um… With great power comes great, uh…” He broke off, unable to remember the saying.

  Wilfred took his meaning, however, and could see that they would indeed have little choice in the matter. “Still,” he said, “let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Of course,” sniffed Barnabas, still somewhat ruffled by his assistant’s censure. “I don’t much relish the idea of bonking people over the head either, but I’ll do what I must.”

  Thus decided, they made ready to approach one of the incoming farmers. “Best we pick one of the smaller ones,” pointed out Barnabas. “Maybe one of the ones with the mouse heads. In case we have to, well, you know.”

  Wilfred nodded, and together they crept out from behind the shelter of the boulder. No sooner had they emerged, however, than they were scooped up unceremoniously from behind. One very large hippo-headed guard held them both up by the necks of their coats so that their feet dangled ridiculously above the ground.

  “What is this?” exclaimed Barnabas in surprise, kicking his feet uselessly. “I say, put us down this instant!”

  “Oh!” cried Wilfred, as the guard gave them both a small shake.

  “You are sneaking about the castle of the great god of chaos,” said the guard, his tone sounding quite reasonable. “You must be taken to Lord Set so he might ask of you what it is you are about.”

  “We have done nothing wrong!” yelped Wilfred.

  “That’s for Lord Set to decide,” said the guard implacably. Embarrassingly, he carried them right up to the front gate, past the inquisitive eyes of all of the guards and the people who were lined up before them.

  Barnabas and Wilfred ceased their struggles, trying to maintain as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances. “Would it be possible for you to put us down?” asked Wilfred politely. “We shall accompany you quietly, I assure you.”

  The guard merely laughed and continued to carry them into the castle. They passed through the gates and headed down a long corridor only dimly lit by torches in sconces on the walls.

  “Really, this is most uncomfortable!” gasped Barnabas, who was turning quite red in the face. Indeed, his face was so red, and his expression so like that of a fish pulled from the water, that Wilfred feared that he might be asphyxiating.

  Thankfully, they had, at that moment, reached the throne room of Set. The great hippo-headed god of chaos sat upon a huge golden throne at the front of the room. The guard stepped forward, still dangling his prisoners, and deposited them (none too gently) on the floor in front of the throne.

  Chapter Eight

  Set glowered down upon the two unfortunate detectives as they clambered carefully to their feet. “And who,” asked the dreaded god of chaos, “are you?”

  Terrified, Barnabas blurted out the first thing that came to mind, which just happened to be an amalgamation of all of the ideas for subterfuge that he and Wilfred had discussed just before being accosted by the giant guard. “We are farming plant-people from the desert!” he yelped. “We are cactus. Cacti! Cactuseses…” Unable to think of the correct plural form for cactus, his voice trailed off.

  “Cactuses?” said Set, a quizzical look taking over his face.

  “Yes, indeed!” cried Barnabas. “See?” He gestured to his vegetation-covered coat. Wilfred, beside him, remained silent and tried to appear as unobtrusive as was possible when one has been thrown upon the floor wearing a ridiculous outfit, and smelling quite a bit like hippo dung, in front of the throne of the god of all evil of the Egyptian underworld.

  “Ah, yes,” said Set. He glanced about the room, making eye contact with all those in attendance. Clearly, he was trying very hard not to laugh, and his mouth tightened against the smile that fought to come to the surface. “A farming, talking, cactus-person covered with reeds and hippo excrement—and with a British accent, no less.”

  Encouraged, Barnabas nodded wildly. “Yes, yes, exactly!” he exclaimed.

  “And so,” continued Set, who was very much enjoying playing with the oblivious detective, “where, precisely, are you from? I haven’t heard of a place populated with cactus-covered farmers.”

  “Marylebone,” answered Barnabas promptly, before realizing how very British that sounded. He immediately tried to convert it into a name that sounded more Egyptian. “Marylebonopatra,” he said.

  “Marylebonopatra?” said Set, having more and more difficulty hiding his mirth. “And where, exactly, is that?”

  “Um,” said Barnabas. “Well, that is… I suppose, it is close to… Uh, you know. Over there,” he concluded lamely, pointing in first one direction and then another.

  At this Set could hold in his amusement no more and let out a great guffaw. The rest of those in the room laughed along with him. Barnabas had no idea what was so funny, but he felt certain that having the god of chaos laughing was probably a great deal better than having him glower at you, and so he laughed as well. Wilfred, who had an idea that he and Barnabas were the butt of this particular joke, nonetheless smiled politely so as not to appear left out of the merriment.

  At last the laughter died down and Set addressed Barnabas and Wilfred once more. He composed his face into a serious expression. “Are you certain,” asked the god, now affecting an ominous glare, “that you are not, in reality, the detectives that Anubis hired to find Khepre?”

  Barnabas and Wilfred cast alarmed glances at each other. Surely, if the god knew who they were and what they were about, they were doomed. However, Set saw their discomfiture and softened his tone. “No need to worry,” he said. “I do not make a habit of harming the employees of other gods. And besides, since I had nothing to do with the kidnapping, I have no reason to feel insulted by your presence, do I?”

  “No, no, of course not,” agreed Barnabas. “We, of course, never suspected you!”

  “No, not even for a moment,” agreed Wilfred, thinking it prudent to speak before Barnabas could blurt out something that might prove harmful to their cause. He tried to think of a plausible reason as to why they would be sneaking around Set’s castle in disguise. “We thought that, maybe, one of the many people coming into the castle might know something. Or, perhaps, you might have heard something or might give us some direction?”

  “Hmm,” said Set. “So why the disguises? Why the sneaking?”

  “Well,” said Wilfred, thinking quickly. “That was in case the real perpetrator discovered we were here. We didn’t want to cause him to, well, interfere with you at all.”

  “I see,” said Set, smiling at Wilfred’s ridiculous excuses. It was obvious that the two little detectives were terrified of him, and he was quite enjoying it.

  “And, you know, there’s that busine
ss about Osiris and the chopping him up and all,” muttered Barnabas.

  “What?” asked Set sharply. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “It’s just, that, you know, Khepre was chopped up,” said Barnabas, regretting at once his careless statement but feeling the need to explain himself nonetheless. “And since you… Well, there was the episode when you…”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” snapped Set irritably. “Geesh! You dismember one person and you hear about it for a thousand years.” He sighed, collecting himself. “Anyway, I’m sorry that has happened to Khepre. And don’t you think it would be a bit stupid for me to do something like that again? A bit too obvious, really?”

  “Of course,” agreed Barnabas politely.

  “I’m sorry to say that I really don’t know anything about it,” said Set. “But I don’t like it much, not at all. With the sun being up for so long, the crops are drying up and the people are starving.”

  Confused, Barnabas asked, “But aren’t you the god of chaos? Isn’t such a thing, well, right up your alley, so to speak?”

  Set huffed indignantly. His expression became troubled, almost petulant. “It most certainly is not!” he declared. “What fun is it to cause chaos if everyone is suffering so miserably already? No sport in it at all. If there’s going to be chaos, it’ll be of my making and it will be incredibly amusing, thank you very much!”

  “Oh, yes, I see,” said Barnabas. “Very sorry.” He thought for a moment, chewing his lip, then added, “I’m sure that your chaos is the best sort of chaos, really.”

  Set waved away the apology with a careless hand. “No matter,” he said. “Still, I think that if Khepre is truly dead, then you had best put your efforts into solving the problem of the drought instead.”